Dirty Habit
by Charlee Bleu
Summary: When the very last strips of paradise slip away, she opens her eyes to find his gaze boring into hers. She stares back, back into the grey eyes that aren't his and runs her hands through the blond hair that isn't his.


She hates his red hair, but when she wakes up, that's all she sees, and she's disgusted. He's not suppose to be here, he doesn't belong here. She gets up, careful not wake him, and heads straight to the bathroom.

She studies herself in the mirror for a long time, she's not sure why, everything is as it ought to be. It always is in the mornings after. When she gets into the shower, she scrubs herself raw, she scrubs herself clean. She takes extra time drying off, moisturizing , brushing her hair, primping, avoiding him. She hopes by time she's done he'll be gone. She wraps herself in a fluffy robe and heads back, but luck was never her friend. He's still there, lazily doing up his shirt buttons.

"How many times have got to tell you, don't sleep here," she snaps.

"I'm leaving now, so drop it," he says dismissively.

And she glares at him as he walks out the door, his fly still undone. She hates herself and she hates him.

* * *

She's sitting at the desk in her study two weeks later, when his hideous, clumsy owl comes fumbling in. _Even his owl is stupid._

_"I'm coming over in about an hour."_

He doesn't sign it of course, he never does, but for the first time, it bothers her. She grabs a piece of scrap parchment lying on the desk and quills her reply, just as short.

_"No, I can't. I'm out of juice, anyway."_

Half an hour later, she's sitting in the gardens when his owl crashes into her tea. _For the love of all that is pure._

_"What? How could you let that happen. You're lucky I have spare. Be there in 20."_

She doesn't reply. _Fine, let him come._

* * *

She's lying on the bed, waiting. He's late, of course, he always is. _Bloody, good-for-nothing wanker. How dare he keep me waiting._

Nearly an hour has passes before she hears him lumbering up the stairs - _graceless oaf _- and another ten seconds before he bursts into her chambers. She's annoyed now more than ever with his brutish ways._Was he raised by centaurs?_

"Why are you still dressed?" She scowls. _Not an ounce of decorum._

"I need to talk to you," she says flatly.

"If I wanted to talk, I wouldn't come to you." and she clenches her fists into the bed sheets. _The nerve of him!_

"Well, it won't be much of a conversation. I'm done." and he looks confused. _Dense arse._

"Done with..?"

"This," she gestures between them, "I'm tired this, of _you_, of everything. I'm done."

"What?" he's alarmed now, he sounds a little panicked. _Good. _"You can't be serious, I _need_ this. You _need_ this. We _need_ this."

"No." she says firmly, "This is sick, twisted and just plain wrong. We have to stop."

"No," he refutes weakly.

"Well, _I'm_ stopping. I don't care what you do, but I'm _done_. You'll have to find someone else to be sick and twisted with." He's silent for a long time before replying.

"Fine," and he says is so quietly that if she wasn't listening she would have missed it, "just this one last time then."

And for the first time, since he came in, she looks at him. She looks at how the clothes he's wearing hangs off him and she swears she can _smell_ the poverty on him, she frowns. She looks at the messy state of his blond hair, she scowls. Lastly, she looks at his eyes, his grey eyes, his lovely grey eyes and sighs. He smiles.

"Hand it over," she commands - _One last time - _and he nearly trips running over. She snatches it from his grasp and heads to the bathroom without a second glance.

* * *

She studies herself in the mirror for a long time, she's not sure why, everything is as it ought to be, it always is the nights before. She gives herself a last once-over before twisting the stopper off and closing her eyes. She swallows the contents in one go and grimaces at the taste, _ugh_. She waits two minutes for the potion to take effect, she doesn't look in the mirror before exiting. He's already fully undressed when she returns and she fights the urge to gag. _Good, the faster the better._

* * *

From the moment he touches her skin, she closes her eyes thinks of nothing but _him_. She thinks of _his_ gentle caress, of _his _probing fingers, of _his _tongue, of _his_ the open mouth kisses trailing down her neck, across her collar bones, through the valley of her breasts, and it makes her wet. When he's inside her, she shivers, moans and writhes in all the right ways because it's _his _length she feels. And as she approaches her climax, her eyes are still closed and her thoughts are still on _him_. She never opens her eyes before she reaches completion and keeps them closed in a desperate attempt to prolong the fantasy, while he seeks his end.

She's brought down from her orgasmic high when he collapses atop her, fully sated. She runs her hands through his perfectly soft, silky hair and sighs happily. It takes a few minutes for him to stir and he raises himself up to rest on his elbows. When the very last strips of paradise slip away, she opens her eyes to find his gaze boring into hers. She stares back, back into the grey eyes that aren't his and runs her hands through the blond hair that isn't his. With a disappointed sigh, she removes herself from the cage of his body, gathers the sheets around her body and goes to sleep. She dreams about _him_.

* * *

She hates his red hair, but when she wakes up, that's all she sees, and she's disgusted. He's not suppose to be here, he doesn't belong here. She glares at his eyelids till they flutter open and when they do, she glares at his blue eyes.

"Get. Up. Now."

She throws the covers off them both, jumps out of bed and goes about collecting his clothes. When she gathers them all, she looks back at the bed to see him staring at her incredulously and it makes her even more furious.

"GET OUT!" she screams and when he scrambles to his feet, she shoves his belongings into his chest, "and don't comeback. This is the last time, Weasley. Never again."

"Whatever, Parkinson," he mumbles as he hastily pulls his clothes on.

And she glares at him as he walks out the door, his fly still undone. She hates herself and she hates him.

Still nude, she stomps into her study and wrenches open the bottom draw of her desk. She pulls out the large, leather bound book and flips to the marked page. She stares at the newspaper clipping pasted to the page, it's a picture of a newlywed couple. The bride looks radiant in her white dress, she's beaming and so bloody happy and _you can't even tell how filthy she is_. The groom is dressed in perfectly tailored black, dress robes, grinning and his blond hair falls into his face as he gazes down lovingly at his wife, it makes her sick. On the other side, the list of ingredients and instructions on brewing that vile, disgusting potion. She tears the clipping and the offending page from the book, shreds them and sets fire to the pieces. She slums down into the leather chair and watches it burn.

* * *

She finds herself in her bathroom an hour later and when she steps into the shower, she scrubs herself of shame, of pain, of _filth_. She scrubs herself raw, she scrubs herself clean.

Later, when she studies herself in the mirror, she smiles at what she sees. Straight brown hair - not bushy, deep blue eyes - not brown, fair skin - not pale, everything is as it ought to be. _Never again_, she vows.

Polyjuice had always made her stomach turn, anyway.

* * *

**Author's Note: I've had this idea for a while and now I've finally gotten around to typing it out. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading. **


End file.
